3's
by Zallie
Summary: One shot, reflective piece, more of a bit of therapy for me than anything else. Drabble, DSH, illusions to past abuse, drug addiction and mental illness.


**Survival by Threes. **

_There is no pain, you are receding  
a distant ships' smoke on the horizon  
you are only coming through in waves….  
your lips move, but I can't hear what you are saying…_

He needed to make sure he was alone. The last thing he need is someone walking in, disrupting his ritual.

Taking in another drag, he finds his eyes darting to the lanes' entrance, wary of any shadow threatening to take a turn, joining him, or rather, intruding on an otherwise private event.

_One down_

Ironically, he didn't smoke before…this – whatever this is. He hadn't ever taken a drag, unlike most teenagers who almost explicably found themselves behind a shed, at some time during their high school careers, pushed on by peer pressure, and an unexplainable need to belong, to be 'cool', partaking in an ultimate act of rebellion, puffing on a tar filled nicotine stick, their lungs exploding as the foreign toxic smoke attempted to enter their otherwise innocent bodies.

Then again, he never felt himself to be counted among the 'innocent'. In his eyes, he did not need the usual vices of adolescence to taint an otherwise pure vessel. He was already tainted.

The small ember lit up as he took another drag, and he tried to recall a time when he was actually happy. Not the smile he fronted for those around him, a façade of happiness, a smoke screen erected subconsciously to fend off the useless queries into his psychological well-being. But true, unadulterated and genuine happiness, where he could honestly say to himself that he was at peace, at peace with the universe, with the horrors and evils it contained, but more importantly, at peace with himself, a feat much harder reached than the former.

Not even the drug induced feeling he longed for could instil what he perceived to be contentment. The way a simple vial would allow his mind to clear itself, rid him of all the knowledge he collected and stored, all feelings of self-hatred and loathing, not even the emptiness and indifference he craved would provide him with the drive to continue fighting. For he knew that, unlike the emotional void that filled his soul, the narcotic haze he so desperately needed, would be but temporary. Eventually, the comedown would strike, rendering him more desolate than before the initial sting,

But cigarettes, they took the edge off. They pulled him back from the edge of the abyss, the one he wished would someday, swallow him whole. But what followed immediately after the calming nicotine entering his bruised and broken body, that was what kept him sane.

_Second_

His mind, a chaotic storm of what this job had exposed him to, and all he had experienced, refused to settle, allow him to weather the wild winds and crashing waves, constantly slamming against his already battered vessel. The evil he had seen, the depravity only capable of humankind – the truth of humanity, really. We like to pretend that we are removed from our animal counterparts, that we are civilised, we are kind, caring – above all else within the animal kingdom. Yet all that sets us apart is our ability to recognise what we perceive is right and just, often ignoring such social queues in lieu partaking in our debauched and wicked fantasies. Cruelty, and the ability to inflict such heinously decadent acts upon our fellow humans, that is all that sets us apart.

_When I was a child  
I caught a fleeting glimpse  
out of the corner of my eye_

At such a young age, he should not be so cynical, he should not be so ready to accept such evils are simply a part of life. Most of his peers hold some degree of ideology, a spark, however minute, would remain, a pilot light of hope, for the future, for human kind as a whole. Perhaps, at least for themselves, lighting the path of their own journey, allowing them to find their own way through life without succumbing to the inherent tragedy that is living.

Yet his expired years prior, flickering and waning under the immense weight of all he knew, all he had experienced. He could even pinpoint the exact moment his flame was extinguished, the moment he lost all hope in humanity, the moment he lost his innocence, as if he'd had any to being with.

The ultimate betrayal, committed by one you entrusted your unwavering and unquestionable love and loyalty to. A singular act perpetrated solely for their momentary gratification, would leave the victim with years, decades of unresolved issues. For him, it was that one act that broke his faith in others. _Never commit yourself fully to anyone, they will let you down. Never open up, it will only be used against you._ Perhaps that was why he deflected personal questions with meaningless statistics, fended off all emotional attachments by appearing socially inept, incapable of forming human connections. If he slowly shut all doors, denied anyone access to his inner turmoil, then nobody would ever be able to hurt him, use his weaknesses against him. _Nobody but himself, for there is no judgement so scathing than your own conscious._

He remembers it in more of snapshots to which a story is developed around, rather than a clear sequential event. In much the same way we recall events from our childhoods from photos, he was able to remember snippets, a face here, a hand there, but never able to visualise it in its entirety. The scars, however, remained as fresh in his mind as though it were yesterday. The fear, the disgust, the nauseating feeling at the pit of his stomach, the knowledge that he should be trying harder, the utter self-loathing at being unable to. The shame he is forced to live with, day in day out, all of it remained crystal clear.

He may not be able to recite in detail, all that had occurred, yet there were tiny, almost trivial everyday events that drew him back to the musky book lined room. An innocent touch against his back, the faint scent of cheap aftershave, a few simple words, _our little secret…_

_I turned to look but it was gone  
I cannot put my finger on it now  
the child is grown  
the dream is gone.._

Suddenly, he was forced back to reality, his cigarette nearing its filter as a large portion of ash fell, scattering into the air before it hit the ground. _Third and final._

He hesitated for a second, before bringing the cigarette down from his mouth. He had to complete the ritual, for his sanity, for his own guilty pleasure. He wasn't even sure why he did it in threes, at first, he didn't even notice it. Now, it was something he felt compelled to do.

Bringing the cigarette to forearm, he closed his eyes before connecting the hot ember to his already scared skin, the evidence of his past sins, all in different stages of healing.

It stings initially, as it always does, but it is enough to awaken his numbed soul. Within seconds, the burn subsides, replaced by the rush of endorphins, and subsequent dopamine, flooding his brain. As the neurotransmitters fire up, a sense of calm envelops him, allowing him to feel happy, if only for a few minutes.

He pulls his drawn sleave back down, his watch securing the cloth at his wrist, hiding his dark secret. Running his hand through his unkempt hair, he slowly makes his way back to the building across the street.

With his ritual now complete, perhaps he'd be able to make it through the night, face the horror that lay in wait for him. Another monster, another victim. Countless lives shattered. He just needed to make it through the night, fend off the shadows of the night, in order to see another day.

…_..I have become….  
…. Comfortably Numb…._


End file.
